The Laminate Flooring Incident

The laminate flooring arrived on a Tuesday. I remember because the delivery guy helped Wayne haul the boxes into the War Room, and Wayne spent the rest of the day reorganizing his precious stacks of baseboards to make room for the new arrival. We had been meaning to redo the guest room floor for months, and Wayne was finally motivated. He had a plan: rip up the old carpet, lay down the laminate, and maybe finish the baseboards by the weekend.

That evening, as we sat in the living room watching TV, I noticed Wayne kept glancing toward the hallway. He did that a lot lately, ever since the presence started. I tried to ignore it, but after a while I asked, ‘What are you looking at?’ He shook his head and said, ‘Nothing. Just thought I saw something move.’ I didn’t push it. Sometimes it was easier not to.

The next morning, Wayne was up early, eager to get started on the floor. He had his toolbox out, a crowbar in hand, and a determined look on his face. I made coffee and stood in the hallway, watching him tear up the carpet in the guest room. He worked for hours, and by noon, the carpet was gone, the padding was rolled up, and the bare subfloor was exposed. He was sweating, but happy. ‘This is going to look great,’ he said. ‘I’ll start laying the laminate after lunch.’

I went to make sandwiches, and when I came back, Wayne was standing in the middle of the guest room, staring at the floor. He wasn’t moving. I called his name, and he flinched. ‘What is it?’ I asked. He pointed down. There, in the corner of the room, was a small, dark stain on the subfloor. It looked like old water damage, but something about it was off. It was almost black, like dried blood. Wayne knelt down and touched it. His finger came away with a sticky residue. ‘This isn’t water,’ he said. ‘It’s something else.’ He sniffed it. ‘No smell. But it’s fresh.’

I felt a chill run through me. We had lived here for years, and that stain had never been visible before. ‘Maybe it’s from the padding,’ I said, but Wayne shook his head. ‘No, the padding was clean. This was under it.’ He stood up and wiped his hand on his jeans. ‘I’ll just cover it with the laminate. No point worrying.’ But his voice was tense.

He started laying the laminate that afternoon. The first row went down easily, but when he got to the corner with the stain, he hesitated. He measured, cut a plank, and fit it into place. But as soon as he pressed it down, he yelped and jumped back. ‘What?’ I asked from the doorway. He held up his hand. There was a small cut on his thumb, and blood was welling up. ‘The edge cut me,’ he said, but he was staring at the plank. I looked closer. The plank had a jagged edge, as if it had been splintered, but it was brand new. Wayne put the plank aside and picked another, but when he tried to fit it, the same thing happened. He cut his finger again, deeper this time. He cursed and sucked on the wound.

That’s when we heard the first sound. It was a faint scraping, coming from the laundry room, which was right next to the guest room. Wayne and I exchanged glances. We both knew what it was. She was here. We had grown accustomed to her presence, but this was different. This wasn’t just a shadow in the hallway or a cold spot in the bedroom. This was active. She was interfering.

Wayne ignored the scrape and tried to continue working. He grabbed a new plank, but as he did, the stack of floorboards in the hallway toppled over, crashing into the wall. The noise was deafening. Wayne shouted, ‘Hey!’ but the boards just lay there, scattered. I helped him pick them up, and when we straightened, the bedroom door, which had been open, was now closed. We hadn’t touched it. Wayne’s face was pale. He strode to the door and yanked it open. The room was empty, but the closet door was open, and clothes were hanging haphazardly.

‘This is getting out of hand,’ I said. Wayne nodded, but he was stubborn. ‘I’m not letting her stop me. I’ll finish this floor if it kills me.’ He returned to the guest room, but as he knelt down, the lights flickered. The TV in the living room turned on by itself, blaring static. Wayne and I froze. The static grew louder, then cut off abruptly. In the silence, we heard a woman’s voice, clear as day: ‘Get out.’

We both ran for the front door, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was like something was holding it shut. Wayne threw his shoulder against it, and with a groan, it swung open. We stumbled outside into the hallway of our building, gasping. The condo door slammed shut behind us. We stood there, panting, staring at the closed door.

That was three days ago. We haven’t gone back inside. We’re sleeping at my sister’s place, but we need to go back eventually. The police won’t believe us. The landlord is threatening eviction. And the worst part is, Wayne told me last night that he saw her. Not just a shadow. A woman, standing in the guest room, pointing at the floor where the stain was. He said she was wearing a white nightgown, and she was covered in dark stains. He couldn’t see her face, but he heard her whisper, ‘Finish it.’

We don’t know what she wants. All we know is that the laminate flooring isn’t going to be finished. Not by us. Ever.